Ms. Carlotta heard the horse’s hooves thumping up the hill behind her. She kept walking. She couldn’t turn back; her heart pounding in her chest like a wild and caged animal, she knew she couldn’t bear to see him again. That’s why she had left without so much as a whisper goodbye.

  The chestnut saddlebred’s thumping gallop ceased. Blinking back tears, she turned, and she looked, and her breath was stolen from her very lungs: there atop the hill stood the gallant silhouette of the man who had taken her heart and caged it. As nobly as a halcyon knight, he sat atop his horse and waited, the vermilion sky burning bright behind him.

  For what he waited, she did not know, but as for herself: she fought. She fought the instinct to dash toward him and beg for forgiveness, to tell him she loved him, but that she just couldn’t bear to stay while—

  A man in a long white coat walks into the foyer. He’s tall and broad-shouldered like a heavyweight boxer. His thick, brown mustache handlebars mildly. Reading glasses sit clipped to his nose. He has the air of an old-fashioned gentleman.

  I place my bookmark and slide the paperback into my breast pocket. Joe and I both stand to greet the man.

  “Gentlemen. You are the detectives, I presume,” he says carefully, looking over his spectacles. He has the faintest hint of a German accent. He reaches out a hand. Joe and I each shake it.

  “Aye. You’re Dr. Steiner, correct?” Joe asks.

  “Yes. Indeed, I am. And you are with the state, correct?”

  “Aye. That we are. I’m Det. McCoy, and this is Det. Marlowe,” says Joe, holding up his badge.

  “Welcome to St. Mary’s, then, Detectives.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “I wish were here under happier circumstances.”

  “Such is the nature of things. Few come to St. Mary’s under happy circumstances. As I understand, you’d like to speak with my most recent patient, Ms. Clara Baker.”

  “Yes. We would,” says Joe. “Is now a good time?”

  “She is available, if that is what you are asking. As for concerns over her mental state, it is my notion that speaking to you will give her some hope. Hope is essential to the healing of the mind.”

  “How is she at the moment, Doctor?” I ask.

  “Quiet. It seems as though a deep bout of depression has overtaken her. This is not unusual, but it is my fear that it will worsen with time.”

  “Is there anything we should know before speaking with her?” asks Joe.

  The Doctor takes a moment.

  “She does not at this time appear to be a harm to herself or anyone else. That said, you may find it difficult to get answers to your questions.”

  “What do you mean, Doctor?” I ask.

  “You will understand when you speak to her. I do not wish to compromise the confidentiality of my patient.”

  “I understand,” I say.

  “Shall I take you to the young lady now?”

  “Aye,” says Joe. “That’ll do. We’re best off speaking to her as soon as possible.”

  [ BACK TO WAITING ]

  Dr. Steiner takes us to a common room and asks us to wait while he goes and grabs Clara. Sitting down in a hard, wooden chair at a round table large enough for five or six people, I look around the place. Large, Gothic windows line the gray walls, inviting in an abundance of natural light. An assortment of couches and armchairs sit about the room, centered around coffee tables, giving the place a homely yet busy feeling.

  “I’ll let you lead the questioning,” says Joe. “You know I’m not the sensitive type.”

  “And I am?”

  “Surprisingly, yes.”

  “Gee, Joe. That’s a lot of pressure you’re putting on me,” I say facetiously.

  “See what I mean?”

  “Alright, well, don’t stop me if I go off the rails with an interesting idea. I have the sense we’re going to have to build some trust before she’ll feel comfortable really talking to us.”

  “You want me to go sit in the car then?” Now he’s the one being facetious.

  “Yeah, I think that’d be great, you grumpy Irishman,” I say with dry sarcasm. “Seriously, though. Let me work, and we’ll see what I can do.”

  I pull out my paperback and open it back up to the bookmark.

  While we wait, may as well see what Captain Jackson does when he sees Ms. Carlotta. My eyes scan the page for the paragraph where I left off. He’d better kiss her.

  [ BACK TO THE PAGE ]

  For what he waited, she did not know, but as for herself: she fought. She fought the instinct to dash toward him and beg for forgiveness, to tell him she loved him, but that she couldn’t bear to stay while that dream of a warrior’s glory still burned bright in his eyes.

  “Hyah!” cried Capt. Jackson. The saddlebred raced forward, hooves clumping down the hill.

  Ms. Carlotta dared not move for fear of breaking the man’s heart and for a deep longing for him to take her, to sweep her up and carry her away from all this mess that had befallen her.

  As the Captain approached her, he swung down from his brave and noble steed.

  “Ms. Carlotta!” he cried out as he ran to her.

  “Oh, Nathan!” She nearly wept as he took her in his arms.

  [ BOOKMARKS ARE MERCIES ]

  As Dr. Steiner returned with the young lady, I put the novel away and stood up. Joe stands with me

  “Ms. Baker, I presume.”

  Her blonde bob is a frizzy, tangled mess that a brush might have attempted to tame to little avail. Dark bags hang under her eyes like purple curtains fallen below a window; though she looks like she hasn’t slept in days, I suspect she’s been engaged in more than enough sleep.

  Those pills they give you never make the night seem long enough. Then, when life hits you like a sack of bricks, you crave long nights all the more. You’ll take the black embrace of shut-eye whenever, wherever, and however because it’s better, softer, and kinder than the waking nightmare of you live in. Pills and tragedy make sleep an intoxicating liquor and a sufferer a drunkard for its soft embrace.

  “Yes, sir. I am,” she says, holding her gloomy green housecoat tight over her white slip. “You’ll have to excuse me for being underdressed, sir. My father hasn’t returned with clothes for me yet. I’ve had to borrow this housecoat.”

  Dr. Steiner pulls out a chair for her.

  “I understand entirely. You’re going through a lot right now. I don’t plan to hold anything so trivial against you. It’s a nice housecoat anyway. You must be in good company for someone to loan it to you.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” she says before taking a seat. She looks at me politely. “This housecoat’s just an old thing that’s been left around. To tell the truth, I haven’t spoken to anyone much. Although, everyone has been very kind to me so far. Far kinder than I’d have imagined.”

  Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  So far, this is going better than I imagined.

  “Well,” says Dr. Steiner, “I’ll take my leave. I’ll be near enough should you need anything. Ms. Baker knows where to find us.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” says Joe, shaking the man’s hand. “We’ll fetch you when we’re done here.”

  As the Doctor leaves, the hard soles of his dress shoes clomping the hardwood floor, I pull out my notepad and pen, set them on the table side by side, and take a seat. Joe takes his seat as well, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed, looking at me.

  She’s nervous. She’s exhausted. She doesn’t want to be here at all. We’ll start with small talk. I need to gauge the situation a little more. We still have no real clue what happened.

  “So, you’ve been comfortable here? All things considered, of course.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s at least good to hear.”

  She stares at the table.

  “How’s the food? I’ve always wondered that about places like this.”

  “The food has been good so far.”

  “What’d you have for breakfast?”

  “We made eggs, bacon, and oatmeal for everyone.”

  “You helped make them?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s good. It’s good to help when you can.”

  She goes quiet again.

  “How’s that work? Helping around here, that is.”

  “They have some of us more stable women do as much as we can.”

  “Not too much, I hope.”

  “No, sir.”

  “You haven’t been here long, though.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you like to cook?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What about the other women?”

  “What about them, sir?”

  “Do they like to cook?”

  “I think they do, sir.”

  “Meaningful work is good for the mind. Would you agree?”

  “Yes, sir.” She looks down at her hands wringing her gloomy green housecoat.

  I’m shucking oysters here, and not a pearl in sight. I’m going to have to comfort her to give her the confidence to speak. She needs to know that the law cares about her. Our society cares about her. That’s why I’m here. I’m here because we care, and she needs to feel that.

  “The grief. It hurts, doesn’t it?”

  She glances up, then stares back down at the table again.

  “An atrocity has been committed against you. Your whole world has been shattered. You’ve been shattered, like an antique vase dropped off a cliff.”

  Her eyes dart up to me for a moment. I can tell she’s warming up a little, like ice in the sun on a cool spring morning.

  I’ll keep trying.

  “I’m here to listen, Clara. I need to hear your story, whatever it is, so we can do our part to create justice for you.”

  She looks at me, then at Joe.

  “Take your time with it. We’re here for you and nothing else, God love you.”

  “Whatever you have to say: we won’t judge. Our only interest is to get to the truth of things and see justice prevail. We are here to fulfill the promises our society has made. We can’t undo what happened. We can’t make it so that the vase was never dropped, but we can stand on your side while you help us get to the truth. We can play a part in helping you put the pieces back together, if you’ll let us.”

  We sit in silence while she continues to stare down at the table, wringing the housecoat in her hands. Sometimes, they tell you everything you need to know. Sometimes, you just sit quietly with them in stoic support. Yeah, sometimes, that’s just how it goes.

  “If you’re not ready to share,” I say. “That’s okay. We’re on your time. We don’t mind sitting here with you if it makes you feel better, or… Do you like books, Clara?”

  I’m grasping at straws here.

  Joe raises an eyebrow at me.

  “No, sir.”

  Not a reed left on the bank.

  His eyebrow drops.

  “Really? You strike me as a smart girl. You must listen to radio dramas.”

  “I do occasionally, sir.”

  There’s one. One flimsy chance.

  “Well, I’ve got this excellent book I’m reading about a southern belle and her southern gentleman.”

  “Is it like Gone with the Wind?”

  Bingo!

  “Yeah, it kind of is.”

  “I hated Gone with the Wind.”

  Drat!

  “Really? Did you see the film?”

  “When I was a girl, yes, sir.”

  “And you hated that, too?”

  “I thought Scarlet O’Hara was despicable.”

  “Well, I don’t disagree with you. Vivien Leigh gave an excellent performance, though, don’t you think?

  “She was too dramatic.”

  “Oh, I thought she was perfect. I think I’d agree though: Scarlet isn’t much as far as likeable characters go.”

  “My mother just loves her.”

  There we go. We’re getting somewhere.

  “This book, though, it’s only kind of like Gone with the Wind. It’s set after the war during Reconstruction. It’s a little more like Pride and Prejudice, only not as high-brow. Who can compare American literature to the Romantics, though?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Would you like to listen? I can read to you. Might be more pleasant than just sitting here in silence with your thoughts. You might really like Ms. Carlotta. She’s a much better character than Scarlett O’Hara.”

  “Sure, I suppose.” She shrugs.

  “Alright.” I get a little excited. “Should I start from the beginning, or do you want me to start where I left off? I think that’d be better. The beginning is a little slow, but it’s an easy book, so you’ll catch on quick.”

  “Okay.”

  “Let’s see here… So, Capt. Jackson has just gotten down from his horse. They’re in the hills outside of Nashville, and Ms. Carlotta has just left to head West to live with family.”

  “Why’s she headed West?”

  “Because she’s in love with Capt. Jackson, but she thinks he’s unwilling to accept the Confederate loss, and doesn’t want to hold him back from chasing his dreams of glory.”

  “Oh.”

  “And while he’s in love with her, he thought she was in love with Mr. Braggs and didn’t want to come between them. But, now that she’s set out, he’s realized what’s been going on all along and raced off to profess his desire for her.”

  “You’re at the end of the book!”

  “No, we’re only halfway. I don’t know what’s going to happen next.”

  “Well, they’ll get married, won’t they?”

  “Perhaps. But, do you see how it’s kind of like Pride and Prejudice?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, I guess it makes more sense when you’re reading it, but his pride leads him to believe that if she were interested in him, she’d react to his wealth and status a certain way. Her prejudice leads her to believe that all soldiers ever want is battle and that a man would never choose a wife over glory.”

  “Is that true, though? Doesn’t he just want to find glory?”

  “Not at all. He actually thinks the war was a disaster. You see, he wishes that the South had abolished slavery on its own terms instead of forcing the issue to the federal government. There’s an interesting conversation in there to be had about what happens when a people refuse to do what’s right.”

  “I thought you said this wasn’t high-brow.”

  “Oh, it’s really not. That’s just a small part of it. Anyway, let’s see what happens.”

  “Yes, please.”

  “So, Capt. Jackson has gotten down from his horse. He’s holding Ms. Carlotta by the waist. Here we go: ‘His eyes gazed into hers like gentle lips touching in the glow of a warm blaze.’”

  “Oh! That’s too much.”

  “What?”

  “This is one of those novels, isn’t it?”

  “No! No! Trust me. There won’t be anything vulgar. Ada Livingston is a phenomenal author. I’ve read her other books.”

  “Sure.”

  “Let me keep reading. We’ll take it to the end of this chapter, and if you still don’t like it, I’ll put it away.”

  “Well… Okay. I’ll trust you, Detective.”

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